


Information

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:05:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: kidnapping</p>
            </blockquote>





	Information

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: torture hinted at (in past), injury, near death, shock

Once they have what they want they leave him. Eames laughs and laughs until the cold makes him sleep, because he would definitely not have held out if they’d just asked him in the first place. They would have saved a lot of trouble. Then again, they’re sadistic bastards, so they probably preferred it this way. Bleeding out like a pig on a hook, a bucket to catch the blood. The sleep comes and goes, but eventually he falls unconscious. He probably won’t wake up again, he thinks.

 

It takes Arthur two weeks to find Eames, and most of that is Eames fault. Arthur’s good at going underground and if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. He’d always thought that Eames was just a little less skilled at that, but then they’d had the fight which resulted in Arthur telling Eames he wished they’d never met and Eames had gone and Arthur couldn’t find him. Not a single trace. Not even rumours. There weren’t even rumours about him being dead, when Arthur had followed feint leads people had just looked at him as if they’d never heard the name ‘Eames’ in their lives.

 

Erasing yourself from databases, paper, records and the internet is a good skill, but to be able to erase yourself from people’s memories is something else entirely. It’s like Eames never existed, anywhere, to anyone. So it takes Arthur two weeks to find Eames. He stumbles over a rumour about a man, nameless, faceless, being beaten. He doesn’t think it’s Eames, but he’s been reduced to finding John Does so he goes and saves him.

 

He walks into the warehouse with a gun, scanning the bare space, the dirty floor, the grimed windows. He sees the shape, first, and thinks he’s walked into a slaughter house. Then the smell of flesh and blood and burnt skin hits him and he winces. He moves closer and the shape coalesces into a body, hanging not from a butchers’ hook but by handcuffs from a pipe. The wrists are chafed raw, fresh blood dripping over the man’s arms and torso. All the wounds look fresh, but Arthur can see the infection set in on the leg and knows that they’re not fresh, they’re just bleeding. Every move the man makes must reopen them.

 

“Are you conscious?” Arthur asks, praying he’s not.

 

The head moves a little, weakly, towards the sound of Arthur’s voice, but the man isn’t conscious. Arthur checks the room once more then holsters his gun and approaches. He checks for a pulse at the man’s neck, and that’s when he gets a look at Eames’ face.

 

“Oh, Eames,” Arthur breathes, “I didn’t think it was you. Shit.”

 

Eames doesn’t come awake, and Arthur can feel how cold he is, can see from the bucket they left how much blood he’s lost. He drags over a rickety chair and picks the handcuff, holding Eames and guiding his tumble to the concrete floor.

 

Eames wakes up in his house, on the bathroom floor. He knows he’s home because he recognises the carpet.

 

“Hello, Mr Eames.”

 

“Arthur,” Eames says, un-surprised by the turn of events, “you found me. I’m impressed.”

 

“I didn’t. I found a John Doe, the twelfth John Doe I followed up. You’re just lucky I thought you’d gravitate here. Nice house.”

 

“I hate the cold.”

 

“And yet, here we are.”

 

Eames hums. He had come because he hates the cold. He’d been hurt and he’d hidden in the most miserable place he could think of. He’d known Arthur would look, and he’d been planning on becoming visible again once he’d had his sulk.

 

“I hurt all over,” Eames says, “but not that much. Am I high?”

 

“No, you have a high fever. I’m going to go get antibiotics, once you’re no longer in shock.”

 

“Check the safe under the bed.”

 

Arthur goes, and Eames wishes he hadn’t said anything, but then Arthur comes back and sits, cross legged, within Eames’ reach. Eames tries to get his hand onto Arthur’s thigh, but his shoulders are too sore.

 

“Are we in danger?” Arthur asks, stitching carefully where he left off once he’s fed Eames pills, “you have these but no painkillers? Poor forward planning.”

 

“This is where I come alone.”

 

He doesn’t want his consciousness to be blurred when he has no way to get backup.

 

“How’s the pain?”

 

“Bearable.”

 

Eames closes his eyes and goes for Arthur’s thigh again, getting it this time, expecting and bracing for the pain.

 

“Stop moving.”

 

Eames does, holding onto Arthur, content that Arthur will take care of everything. He jerks, suddenly, though, and narrows his eyes.

 

“How’d you find this place?”

 

“You told me. Before you crash out, are we in danger?”

 

“No. I was happy to give the information they were after.”

 

“Nothing important. Good. Alright, you can pass out again, now.”

 

Eames takes the invitation gladly. 

 

 


End file.
